


this place isn't home, (we are)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘No, I don’t mean —’ He sighs, rubbing his forehead. ‘Back when I was, y’know, that person, I was told what to do. I took orders, of where to go and how to do it. I’m familiar with how this century works, but to go at it alone, for the puppet strings to be completely cut from the puppeteer? I wouldn’t last a day.'</i>
</p><p>It's everything Steve expected, and he'll do whatever it takes to save Bucky, even if he's dragged down with the effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this place isn't home, (we are)

**Author's Note:**

> Longest fanfic I've done, and I'm impressed — as it's also the first time I've tried Steve/Bucky. Took around a month to finish this, and although I'm glad I have finished it, I hoped I'd have done it sooner. It has elements of the comic and the film (from what I could gather from the trailers.) If there any mistakes regarding the details, please let me know and I'll change them asap. 
> 
> As usual, this is unbeta'd.

For once he can’t escape this situation.

Well — if he really, _really_ tries — he can, but to break the chains that are wrapped around his legs, joining to his tightly shackled hands, would take several minutes of struggling, concentration and strength; the material is something he hasn’t encountered before, so it doesn’t surprise him to think it had been made specifically for him. To cause chaos isn’t what he needs right now, to risk the lives of men, women and children.

Besides, he’s intrigued by his captor, The Winter Soldier. It’s not some crazy impulse, but to understand his motives, Steve must hear what he has to say.

Of course, there is the strong possibility of death, but this, what is happening, is a message, a scare directed at S.H.I.E.L.D to back off. He isn’t someone who’d hesitate to up his game. Steve has seen the footage, and he believes it, as this robotic, cold man is powerful, not just in physicality, but strategically, mentally, hence why Steve had ended up in this abandoned motel room in the first place; an empty room, but by no means in an empty city.

A soldier, who takes orders, but appears to be his own boss. That in itself causes the clench of irrational fear, not for himself, but for the civilians, because if he doesn’t stall, or hinder, or take the Soldier into headquarters, who knows what he’ll do once he’s on the outside again. More assassinations? Explosions? Pulling more lives into the mix? What’s worse is that there is a slight recognition, feeling as if he knows him, and Steve wants to believe that they’ve met on previous missions, but for some reason it doesn’t fit. It causes a spike of adrenaline in his system, deep at the bottom of his gut, and so he needs to ignore the fear, _will_ ignore it because his life — and others lives — depend on it. Being captured was part of the plan, but most of what Steve says or does is based off instinct.

Waiting for the right moment.

Blood cakes the side of his face, from where the Soldier had hit him round the head, with his metal arm, the gash he’d caused already healed and the blur in his vision cleared. It isn’t what feeds his discomfort, instead the way the Soldier remains in the dark corner of the warehouse, the glint of his arm all he can see.

The Soldier remains hidden as he speaks, his voice has a tinge of Russian; it doesn’t sound right, strangely wrong because there’s something else there. As if it’s not his home dialect, and he knows it, but pointing it seems impossible right now. ‘I don’t have much time before the red head comes to your rescue, so I’ll cut to the chase.’

‘I was hoping for a second date.’

‘Funny,’ he deadpans. ‘And impressive, since you’re tied to a chair, beat black and blue. You should quit while you’re ahead, Captain Rogers. You won’t win.’

He swallows back the dry, scratchy feeling that clings to his throat. He needs a distraction, get the right angle to take down his opponent, but it’s hard to see with him standing a few feet away, in the shadows, with no way to discover his identity. But why does that matter? He doesn’t need to a stick a name to this guy, only to stop him from taking anymore lives. And yet, and _yet_ , it isn’t that easy — it’s like a tick in his mind, a noise that never quite goes, remaining in the background, right where he doesn’t want it.

Lifting his head, ‘I wasn’t aware this ever being a competition.’

‘It isn’t. It’s war. It was child’s play to take down all those generals, officials, The Red Skull, and it’ll be just as easy to do the same to everyone else, including the great Captain America.’ He takes one step, the light giving a faint shine to his body — and _no_ , that can’t be right. ‘If you surrender, I might consider sparing your life.’

‘Well, you nearly cracked my skull, and I don’t trust anything you say, so no. That isn’t going to happen.’

‘No white flag?’ He sighs. ‘That’s my big show ruined. I was thinking of presenting you like Stark’s Expo — spotlights, a title that reads _Captain America falls to his knees._ Now that’s off the table.’

There are two things about his answer that causes a chill up the length of Steve’s spine. One, mentioning Stark’s Expo, and that for some unknown reason, he feels the Soldier isn’t quite referring to Tony. Two, the way his title holds a lot more innuendo than what Steve is comfortable with.

He swallows past the thickness in his throat. ‘I doubt you’d have had much of an audience, not having many fans and all.’

‘Let me guess: you’d know that because you’re a member of the anti fan club?’

Steve manages a nod, his hands flexing. ‘I’d offer you a place, but we don’t accept fugitives.’

The Soldier snorts. ‘This won’t be ending with me in jail.’

‘See,’ Steve says, and his pulse quickens, the tension thickening in the air. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You could come out of this alive, but I will make sure you’re put in handcuffs and escorted to a cell for the rest of your life. I’ll personally drag you there myself if that’s what it takes. Whatever it takes.’ _Even if that means my own life._

‘Make them pink and fluffy and I’ll come skipping.’

‘Jail doesn’t provide privileges.’

‘Hey.’ The Soldier shrugs. ‘You’re the one who indulged his personal kinks.’

He shakes his head, ignoring the crude language, and feels a vein throbbing in his neck. ‘You made it personal as soon as you took the first innocent’s life.’

It’s then that The Winter Soldier steps from the shadows, and Steve realises, no, it couldn’t have been anymore personal than it did now. All of it, every event that had led up to this moment, had been minuscule, the size of a pin, so tiny that it’s laughable. So ridiculously, painfully laughable.

And it’s not from the sight of a needle he twiddles between his fingers, or the metal arm up close, but because of the face that emerges in the light, the same that has haunted him since he woke up, that he saw fall before him into the snowy mountains, and he’s right _there_ ; even with the dark smears of charcoal around his eyes, and long, lank hair, it’s him, his best friend, the guy who hadn’t made it back, believed dead—

Bucky.

He breaths in, slow, steady, each sticking to the walls of his throat. Maybe in the past, Steve would have felt a swell of relief in his chest, an urge to cry, but now it’s like someone has punched a gaping hole into his stomach, stamped on him a dozen times. It hurts, it hurts, because it’s so wrong to see a guy he’d convinced to go to war with him, seen him fall from the train, lost, and now he’s only a few steps away, so close to touch. With the same brown eyes, the dusting of stubble along his jaw, and the terrifying look he gives, is the same guy. He’s here.

And yet, it’s still impossible to believe.

Impossible to believe he’s alive, to believe how everything can change with just light.

‘No,’ Steve whispers, an painful echo that aches in his chest. ‘You — You shouldn’t be alive. I saw you fall.’

‘I got no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, pal.’

His heart thunders against his ribcage, his breathing hard through his nose, and it’s the flashbacks, the overwhelming images that assault his mind that hurts the most.

‘You’re dead. I thought you were dead.’

The Winter Soldier — no, Bucky, no. A man that isn’t Bucky, but with Bucky’s face, with those brown, dead eyes, void of any emotion, shakes his head. ‘As you can see, I’m very much alive. On a tight schedule, too, so let me know if you regret not surrendering after your system is destroyed.’

It takes a blink for Bucky to appear in front of him, too close, suffocatingly close, and Steve sucks in a breath when he grips his chin, and stabs the needle into his neck.

The effects take hold of him at soon as he pushes down the stopper; his mind fogs up, a drowsiness overcoming him. Bucky smirks down at him, his outline becoming fuzzy and the quiet snort a muffle against his ears, the blood pounding against his skull, and he knows the painful jerk in his chest isn’t from whatever he was injected with. He fights to keep his eyes open, to form his words without them slurring as he says, ‘Agent Romanoff.’

His smirk drops. ‘What —’

‘Do it. Now.’

Behind him, he feels the splinters of wood as the door explodes. Several voices are shouting, including Bucky’s, in harsh Russian. Gun shots are fired. And it’s when a hand touches his shoulder, along with the flash of red, that he succumbs to the cold sweats, the burning heaves of breath, and the shadows that darken the corners of his vision.

~

‘You sure you want to go in there, Cap?’

Steve’s neck hurts when he nods. ‘I need to.’

It’s been a week since the capturing, taking Bucky into custody, and extracting whatever he’d tried to poison Steve with. Considering how potent it had been, he still recovered within twenty-four hours, the serum stopping any damaging affects, which besides the odd twinge, he’s back to normal — well, physically, he’s in perfect health, but the thoughts of his best friend riddle his mind every moment.

Only after some persuasion, ensuring Bucky is stable, and understanding Steve’s situation, does Fury allow him admission.

‘From what intel we could find, he was revived in 1954, and since then he’s assassinated agents, chancellors and anyone he was told to left, right and centre. He’s a killer, Rogers, don’t expect anything more.’

Was he? Is he really a cold, heartless killer that everyone claims him to be?

Bucky exists inside the Soldier, trapped, but seeps through. In his mannerisms — drumming his fingers and the bored, slightly irritated sigh — is all him. The team say he doesn’t remember, having shown Steve the files and watched the footage. That he had been subject to what Steve once was, only with the addition of suffering the hand of brainwashing, and wrung, _used_ , and hung up until needed again, like an old towel. They say the possibility of regaining everything he once had is slim, but Steve knows the kid he grew up with in Brooklyn is in there somewhere. The bastards removed his memories, but they failed to take away the details, who he is at heart.

It’s still him. Bucky who he’d met when was just a kid, who beat up the bullies and told Steve off for getting into endless fights, who forced him on the cyclone at Coney Island, but cared for him after he got sick, (even after getting it on his shirt), and the one who didn’t care that Steve was the skinny, asthmatic kid that couldn’t pick up dates, seeing him as the same guy after his transformation. That’s what he loves most, the acceptance, from someone who saw women every night, enlisted in the army, and had Steve’s back from the start. And he can sense Bucky’s presence is here, that he isn’t lost.

The Winter Soldier is James Barnes.

James Barnes is the Winter Soldier.

And he will always be Steve’s best friend in spite of it.

‘No offence, sir,’ he says after a pause, ‘but we’re not referring to the same person.’

~

It dawns on him that Bucky is a prisoner.

As if a repeat of Schmidt, when he’d strapped him down onto a table for experiments, only this time he sat on the other side of a metal table, his hands bolted, but otherwise doesn’t appear to show any reaction.

This isn’t it, either; this is an interrogation. One that executed by anyone else wouldn’t be an easy procedure, which he can imagine how that would turn out, with demands and a few slaps, and if not cooperative, held in a glass box like some wild animal. Unless Bucky is restored to his old self soon, out of the options, Bucky could be taken away to a horrid, disciplinary prison for the rest of his life, or tested on some more to pick him apart and determine what the hell happened to him, or maybe, if he is stupid enough to try anything, he risks a bullet through his head, right on the spot. Steve trusts none of those will be put into action.

Funny, how not so long ago Steve was willing to drag him to prison, and now everything was different.

Bucky looks him up and down as he sits. ‘We meet again.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘The guy who kept his promise, apparently.’ He casts a glance around the room. ‘I was expecting less of the luxury and more shit-stained walls. Is this how you treat all your guests?’

He’d have made a speech about how he was the exact opposite, but he isn’t the opposite, anything but. It’s the sound of his breathing, (in, out; hard, controlled) that breaks him from his thoughts, and when he opens his mouth again, it feels wrong, as if his jaw is loose on its hinges, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. ‘You don’t remember me?’

‘I must’ve hit you pretty hard if you can’t remember five seconds ago —’

‘Not Captain America, or Rogers, but as Steve, friend of Bucky Barnes.’

‘Don’t do this now,’ Natasha’s voice crackles in his comm. ‘You know how this’ll end.’

His gaze doesn’t flicker. ‘Who the hell is Bucky?’

‘ _You_. You’re Bucky.’ It’s pointless, and he’d been briefed about the situation, a hundred times, by agents and medical, but he continues. ‘Your real name is James. We’ve known each other —’

‘I don’t have friends.’

Sighing, ‘I’m not going to spend every second getting you to remember —’

‘Good, saves us both time.’

‘—but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.’

‘Try what? Convincing me I’m not who I think I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, really, but you need lessons in who I am.’ He crosses his arms. ‘You’re speaking of a completely different person, one I’m guessing is your imaginary friend, pal.’

Steve clenches his hands in his lap. ‘You don’t know who you are —’

‘I do, and if you need reminding, I’d be open to do so. Spend a whole night with you, explaining who I am, but,’ he looks him up and down. ‘You’re not my type.’

Of course he’d turn this into some sexual game, but Steve only ignores it, pushes it behind him. ‘Too untrusted to your liking?’

‘Too personal.’ His gaze holds, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Maybe another time, when you’ve taken your stubborn head out of your ass long enough to admit you’re wrong, because let’s get something straight, Steve, we are not friends. You may have read my files, but you don’t know me. Isn’t that what friends are for? To know everything about each other, down to the very last detail.’

‘Your files say when you were found, those you’ve killed, who you follow orders from, right?’ His throat feels thick again. ‘If I’m so wrong, how would I know where you were born, your mother’s name, the angry tick you get in your jaw when you’re ignored, or how you got that scar on the lower left of your back.’

He sees Bucky swallow, his gaze wavering for a split second, like a strain to keep the guards solid. ‘You think I don’t know you’ve come to know this by observation, operatives, Natalia?’

It causes him to pause, but he powers on.

He knows he shouldn’t say it, what with it treading on fine lines, and Natasha must have noticed his expression, just knowing what is coming next, as her voice buzzes through his comm again, harsher, a command, ‘Don’t do what I know you’re about to do.’ Reaching up, he pulls it out, just as she says, ‘Stand down, Steve, stand down.’

Dragging in deep, ‘Do you have nightmares? Of being strapped to a table — not knowing where you are, or how you got there, and The Red Skull is there.’

‘You —’ Bucky snaps his mouth shut, but his eyes flare.

‘Or falling? It’s a blur, and there’s nothing but your own screams?’ His chest hurts, a tightening sensation; it’s hard to breathe, to drag in a steadying breath. ‘I know Natalia never knew that, I can see it. I know you —’

‘I suggest you shut your damn mouth —’

But he doesn’t, just keeps talking, even though he’s aware of what can happen. ‘And, right now, I’m as personal as you’re gonna get.’

It’s an ugly blend of punches and staggering kicks, not the graceful tactics he’d seen performed by Natasha or Clint; the Winter Soldier surges over the table, slams his cuffed hands across Steve’s head. Pain erupts over his skull, and he sees stars, a long enough distraction for him to swing round and circle his arms around Steve’s neck, hauling him backwards. He chokes, the chains digging into his skin.

Managing to plant one foot on the table, he shoves back, slamming them both into the wall. Bucky bites off a groan, and Steve takes it as the chance to grab his arms, folding forward and flips him over his shoulder, back connecting with the ground. He’s ready, prepared just as he was taught — too quick for Steve to land a solid punch, rolling away in time, the pain shooting up Steve’s knuckles as they split under the force; a warmth seeps through his fingers, what he knows as blood, staining the marble, but he really, does not care.

A blow he barely sees hits his gut, harder than humanly possible, and he doubles over, wheezing. He has nothing to use as a weapon, the only thing to rely on his fists. It’s so off aim, and done blindly, but he puts all his weight onto his feet, swings up, and cuffs Bucky’s chin. He stumbles back, grimacing, and wipes the spit from his mouth.

Neither move, and Steve isn’t sure why; maybe something has switched in Bucky’s mind, or maybe — the more likely option — he is planning his next move, one that Steve doesn’t know if he can keep it with. He’s practised with Natasha, but he’s never been as fast with his reflexes or fluid movements.

Steve steps back, catching his breath. Blood runs down the side of his face, and he tastes it across his lips, tangy and metallic. It drips onto the floor.

Bucky mirrors his state, hands fisted at his sides, his chest heaving with gasps. His lip is split, a bruise blooming on his cheek, not that it bothers him, as his mouth thins out. He looks as if he’s about to attack gain, and Steve expects it, holding his stance even if he aches all over and his head throbs.

‘You’re not one to give up, are you?’ he asks, spitting. Steve doesn’t need to wonder where he picked up that habit. ‘I bet that gains you the best kinds of attention.’

And it’s funny, so painfully hilarious, that out of all the people he’s known to fight on his missions, Bucky isn’t even on the list — that had this been seventy years ago, Bucky would’ve said the same exact thing, and done exactly what Steve does best by not walking away — and yet, it’s completely, utterly different, facing each other on opposite sides. His laugh is strangled; it burns as it tears up his throat, and he only stops when he refocuses on the guy that is an assassin with Bucky’s face, and right now, is all The Winter Soldier, with his jaw sight in a tight line and eyes void.

‘Only when it concerns those who matter.’ And it’s so out of sense and nothing to do with his question, but he says it anyway, needs to say it. ‘I can’t fail you again, Bucky.’

His reaction is immediate, and Steve expects it, (doesn’t blame him, in fact), which is why he barely flinches when Bucky manages to lunge at him, his hands clasping around Steve’s neck, throwing them both to the ground. It’s reflex, to act this way to being pitied, for the person opposite you to have an expression of utter regret and sadness, is an insult enough; he was partly the same when he wasn’t the Winter Soldier. Hating to be felt sorry for, that he is strong and can look after himself without the mothering of kissing his wounds and slapping his hands, and doesn’t need the pathetic faces.

All the times Steve would bandage up his injuries back in the war, and Bucky noticed that sad look and his lips tremble with the urge to say something, something so annoyingly caring, he told him to shut his punk mouth, assuring Steve he knew what he’d gotten himself into, and that was it. He didn’t need those kinds of looks and words, no more focusing ton the negative, but to gaze into the positives: winning the war, settling down with some lovely dames, and all the good things expected in dreams.

It’s different now.

Steve feels bad, in that Bucky is suffering — the Soldier is — but he sees it as belittling him, that all he sees, all S.H.I.E.L.D sees, all of the country sees, is this crumbling, lifeless void, soon to die out from the weight of his actions, even when they’re not driven by his real thoughts.

And part of it is true. He does believe his best friend will wither away into nothing. If he can’t save a man who’s endured so much pain, from the false identity, he can never forgive himself.

‘Fail me?’ His lips twist, and his hand tightens, digging into Steve’s windpipe. ‘You can’t fail me, but I can certainly fail you.’

He wheezes, and it’s everything but a lie as he coughs out, ‘Do it. If you don’t remember me, do it.’

‘That’d be too easy. You’d be dead in a few seconds.’

 _It’d be less painful,_ Steve thinks through the thick fog in his mind, only increasing more and more, and he knows the agents are coming, that the door will be broken down if it has to, drag Bucky off him.

‘Why not slowly?’ It’s a hiss of what can only be akin to hatred, and it causes Steve’s chest to feel as if it’s con caved, not from the deprivation of oxygen or stab of his metal hand against skin — a myriad of blue bruises inevitable — and even as tears sting the corner of his eyes and lips turn blue, he listens. ‘I’ve always made it quick in the past; the snap of a neck, a bullet to the head, but never a careful, detailed kill. You’d be a good first subject.’

Black spots start to dot his sight. ‘Bucky —’

‘My name isn’t Bucky,’ he says, but his fingers twitch. ‘It isn’t.’

His eyes are wild, the vein in his jaw throbbing from how tight it’s clenched, and the tendons in his neck strain, as if he’s struggling to finish the job; something, a voice, in his head is screaming at him to do it, to crush his windpipe, but he’s fighting against it. Steve knows he is.

It’s useless, but he tries once more. ‘Remember who you are.’

He closes his eyes, and the hand tightens and the blackness dawn in on him, and he can’t breathe —

But then, the grip is gone, the air rushing back and stabbing his lungs as he gasps it in. Through the tears, he sees agents, including Natasha, dragging Bucky away, and he struggles, an enraged, livid noise wrenched from his chest. There’s a glint of light in Natasha’s hand, and she stabs it into the side of Bucky’s neck. He slackens almost immediately, taken away. His eyes close.

Steve’s voice is croaky, the words scratching his throat as he asks, no, almost begs Natasha. ‘Don’t —’ He swallows. ‘Don’t hurt him.’

All she offers him a sharp, yet unsure nod before she stalks out, following the other agents as they drag Bucky off to a place he doesn’t want to know where right now. The imprint of his fingers remain on his neck, inside his throat, and even though his breathing is steady, his chest feels as if it’s about to collapse on itself.

~

It’s exactly four sleepless nights when Steve risks seeing Bucky again.

Through the looking glass of his cell, that is.

He lays on the bed, bolted to the ground, in case Bucky decides to rip it from the stone floors and use it as a weapon, and his metal arm resting behind his head and the other slung over his stomach. For once, he looks at peace, unnervingly calm, with a small, knowing twitch of his lips. His gaze locks onto the glass, looking straight to where Steve stands. And his mouth moves, a whisper, but Steve can still hear it loud and clear.

‘I know you’re there, Punk.’

It can be seen as nothing, as it’s one word and only one word; Bucky, the Winter Soldier, doesn’t know its significance, but Steve does. His chest hurts as he absorbs it, replays it, and he swallows past the thick feeling in his throat. It’s not much, but it is — it’s the sliver of hope Steve thought he’d lost.

~

‘We have a code red,’ Fury snaps through his comm. ‘I repeat, we have a _code red_ — The Winter Soldier is out.’

He’s sprinting down the corridor before Fury finishes, followed closely by Natasha. Steve knows where Bucky is headed: straight for the cube, the only other thing they’d kept behind bars when taking him in, that he’ll stop at nothing to get it back and complete the mission. Not if Steve has anything to do with it.

Somehow, maybe from the adrenaline or fear that Bucky will escape and he’ll never see him again, he catches up to him, just as Bucky smashes his fist through the keypad, the door malfunctioning, which thankfully continues to fail long enough for Steve to slip past, hot on his heels. His breaths burn, the blood pumping against his skull, and when Bucky comes to a stop in front of the cube — held in a box that looks so weak and fragile from here — something, he doesn’t know what, compels him to skid to a halt.

Thrusting his arm out, Natasha stops. She tries to push past him, but he shakes his head. ‘Don’t.’

‘Are you insane? If he gains power over the cube —’

‘I know. He won’t make it past us.’ He keeps his eyes trained on Bucky. ‘Just. Just wait.’

Steve isn’t so sure if he and Natasha can stop him from barging past, but he takes the risk anyway, because there’s a pulse, a glowing in the cube that he’d never seen before; it only begun as soon as Bucky drew close, as if sensing his presence, even if it sounds incredibly stupid. And Bucky probably doesn’t feel it, as he rears back, unflinching, as his arm smashes through the box, clean and cut, the sprinklings of glass shattering to the floor.

He reaches out, cautiously, so slowly Steve holds his breath, and as soon as Bucky’s fingers flitter over the blue light —

A scream tears past his lips, and he collapses, clutching his head, the cube forgotten. It echoes around the room, slicing through Steve, and it feels so familiar, the exact same agonising shouts he’d heard in Bucky’s tent back in the war, so tragic, of grief of the losses, of the haunting remembrance in his nightmares.

More agents file in, but they stop, don’t attempt to hold Steve back as he steps forward. He can see Bucky trembling, continuous shudders up his spine, and when he finally reaches him, he holds a hand out — it’s shaking, too, and he does nothing to still it — resting it on Bucky’s shoulder; it’s just a brush, a feathery touch. Bucky jumps, and sucks in a sharp breath, head snapping up.

His gaze focuses, darting as he searches. His lips tremble. ‘Steve?’

It’s all Steve needs to hear to drop to his knees, gathering his arms around Bucky and crushing him to his chest to hold onto him for dear life, even if Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t care that there are several agents surrounding them with guns pointed at their heads, or that Natasha whispers something in Russian, or that his cheeks are wet from tears or sweat, stinging the cuts that fleck his skin. It’s all warmth and cold, all pain and relief, mixed into one, heavy in his chest as he tries to gasp in breaths.

And he chokes on Bucky’s name, over and over, until it is the only thing he can say.

~

Just as Steve believes thing can start to return to normal, Bucky refuses to see him, refuses to talk, and only allows Natasha into his cell — which is purely for the sake of protocol, until they see Bucky is fit enough, not that he cares — and, he’s yet to actually mention Steve, even his name; it feels as if he doesn’t remember him, again.

He’s respected Bucky’s decision to back off for a while, has done for the last two weeks, but there’s only so long he can wait without knowing what thoughts are plaguing his mind. No one has tried to stop him, not even Natasha who he thought would have pulled him aside to tell him it takes time to recover from something like this, she would know, and to give him space, but she hasn’t said a word. It worries him. He’s had few warnings, but knowing he’s known him since childhood, it’s as if they think, besides Natasha, he’s the only one capable of getting through to him. Steve thinks — having been told briefly of The Red Room, how Bucky trained her — she knows him more at the moment. Out of all people, she is without question, the one who understands what he’s going through.

And, of course, he’s okay with speaking to him, but he knows Bucky isn’t as soon as he steps into his room, watching as he tenses and balls his hands into fists. Any confidence he had before about things looking up disappears.

‘You shouldn’t have come.’

‘I know,’ he murmurs. ‘But I had to.’

‘Come to interrogate me? Run some more tests?’

Steve frowns. ‘No, of course not. I wanted to see how you are.’

Stupid question, really, seeing as it’s clear how he’s feeling, but if it’s the only way he can Bucky to speak, so be it. He shrugs. ‘Considering I’ve just woken up from what is basically a trance for seventy years, to have more scientists pump shit in and out of my body, and several agents shining a light in my eyes, I’m just swell.’

He knows it isn’t an exaggeration, far from it. He can’t imagine what it’s like to have something — some people — to take you out of your body, reshape you, rewire your brain and everything about you, and stuff that new person into an empty shell. It’s the best way he can explain it to himself, and he isn’t going to ask Bucky what it felt like; relaying what torture, suffering and having a new identity forced on him would be making him relive the whole experience, and Steve wants to do anything for him to save him from that.

As he’s about to open his mouth, though not sure what to say, Bucky speaks over him.

‘All those lives lost,’ he spits, trembling, ‘for something so _worthless_.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ He swallows, and when he turns, not looking at Steve still, he can see the heavy bags under his eyes, the sickly pale skin, his metal hand digging into his thigh. ‘I was the one who pulled the trigger. I drove the knives in their chests. I —’ Inhaling a breath, it catches in his throat. ‘I was one the who wrapped a hand around your throat and was willing to crush your windpipe and watch you die.’

Steve steps forward. ‘You didn’t know it was me.’

‘As if that matters.’

‘Of course it does. You think being programmed as a completely different person, with implanted memories of a stranger, isn’t a justified reason for why you’re not blamed in this?’

He finally looks at Steve, and it’s unguarded, so far from what he’d looked like as The Winter Soldier; it’s vulnerable, all anger and misery. ‘That’s exactly what I think, Steve.’ It’s the second time he’s said his name since he remembered, and it causes his chest to clench. ‘Because you’re the only one who thinks it’s justified. Do you think that’s what they’ll agree on when they’re deciding if I should spend my life behind bars or, what I’m not opposed to, execution.’

If there’s anything that’s caused the most crippling pain he’s ever had, it’s that one comment, the truth raw.

‘I’m not the only one who agrees.’

‘What? Natali — Natasha?’ He snorts. ‘Tell me how that goes when you two go up against the rest of SHIELD.’

‘It won’t need to go up against SHIELD, I’ve spoken to Fury.’

And he had, and once it’d been confirmed that The Winter Soldier is in fact Bucky Barnes, from the footage of Steve and the Howling Commandos, Fury said neither of those outcomes would happen. If he proved mentally stable, with no lasting damage or any signs of returning to his controlled state, then he’ll no longer be treated as a threat.

He shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, Steve.’

‘No, I don’t,’ he says, taking in a steadying breath. ‘I am far from understanding what you went through, and I probably never will. What I do get is that right now, you feel alone — and you can deny it all you like, but I know, Bucky. I’ve been there.’ He swallows. ‘I am there.’

Bucky doesn’t relax at this, in fact, he tenses further. Steve expected this sort of reaction, but not to such an extent; the exhaustion that sinks into the sharp angles of his face, his eyes just as empty. It’s elements of The Winter Soldier and Bucky, but not quite, a combination of the two which isn’t by any means good. His breathing is shallow, aching, and when he murmurs — too soft, so naked it’s ripped open and spills out all the restrained suffering — it ploughs into Steve like he’s been hit by his shield. ‘You should’ve just killed me.’

He was wrong before; that is the reason for the most crippling pain he’s ever had.

~

‘You think he’ll never come back from this,’ Natasha says to him the next day. ‘But he will.’

It sparks a question he’s been wanting to ask for sometime now, and he isn’t looking for a straight answer, not even an answer at all. All he knows is Bucky trained her, but he can’t help but think there is more, some sort of connection between them. ‘How well did you know him?’ 

Natasha seems unsurprised by this, her features unchanging from the passive look. ‘Quite well,’ she sighs, and pauses. ‘We were together.’

‘Were you —’

‘In love?’ Steve nods; she offers him a brief shrug. ‘I was a child. I didn’t know what love was.’

To hear just that one comment feels like she’s divulged her whole life to him, because this is Natasha, his teammate who barely ever let her guards down. It’s quite discomforting, not in that she shouldn’t feel confident enough to trust him with whatever she wants to say, but it’s the fact that she is that confident with him. It’s more pressure on him than trusting him with her life.

‘He told me he worked by himself, didn’t need anyone,’ she continues. ‘Every time he snuck into my room, he didn’t tell me it didn’t mean anything. I already knew — I felt the same. What we needed was to not be alone, and I was there at the right time. Not a lot has changed.’

‘Nothing? It feels like a hell of a lot has changed.’

‘For you. He hasn’t changed, much. Once he came out of status, he returned to the mission at hand, an assassin following his orders. He taught me a lot of things, one of the best I’d learnt from, I’ll give him that, but he taught me more than how to fight. There was the fluency of breaching the mind, or matching your opponent. That’s what he was to me, a teacher.’

Steve nods, his throat suddenly thick to breathe through. ‘You still feel that way now?’

‘He’s different. He’s two people, and you might not like it, but he won’t ever be the man you once knew. Some of James will come back, but he won’t be completely rid of The Winter Soldier.’

‘I know.’ He sighs. ‘But does he? He believes he’ll always be a — what he isn’t.’

‘No, and that’s why you need to speak to him.’

‘You don’t think I’ve tried —?’

‘Keep trying.’ It’s not exactly a command, but there’s an edge to it. ‘You need him, Steve, and he needs you.’ She raises an eyebrow, and the tightness in his chest loosens.

‘No matter how he tells you otherwise.’

~

The next day he brings Bucky breakfast, boiled eggs and toast, with a newspaper, and lays it next on his bed. He’s been upgraded to a bigger room, a softer bed, and yet Steve can understand why he chooses to sleep on the ground. It reminds him of the forties, sleeping in his bunk where the mattress is harder than rocks.

He doesn’t speak when Steve enters, nor does he when he leaves, and that’s okay; when he returns, the plate is empty and the newspaper clutched in his arms as he sleeps.

And the wrinkles in his face aren’t so deep anymore.

~

It’s midnight when he receives the text: _he wants to speak to you._

~

Bucky is propped up against the wall when Steve arrives, and he jerks his head, the only acknowledgement he gets, but he refuses to take it personally, it’s anything but. It can’t be when he takes a seat next to him, sliding down the wall, and after some silence, Bucky hesitates. ‘Hey.’

He decides against the question of _how are you feeling_ , to avoid ruining this moment and the minor improvements, so any concern for his health is banned — for now at least — as if he is going to try and ignore his worry, which is what he would love to do in situations like these, but not if he wants to challenge the impossible and fail. Miserably.

‘So,’ he says, blowing out a gust of breath, ‘liked my eggs, huh?’

The corner of his lip quirks in a not so much smile. ‘Always did.’

‘Could make you some more if you’d like.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks, Rogers.’ He manages a quiet laugh. ‘Eating’s the last thing on my mind.’

Noticing the tenseness in Bucky’s jaw, the veins rising in his neck, he leans closer. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

It’s a look he’s seen a few times, just before he’d gone off to war, or when he and Steve are in the tent and patching up each others injuries, the night before raiding another HYDRA base, and moments before he’d fallen — reaching out, their fingers brushing — and it’s a breaking mask, an attempt to hide his fear but not quite succeeding; with dark shadows under his eyes and his nails chewed down, they’re the clues of his anxiety, and he doesn’t think Steve ever notices, but he does, (he always has) and probably always will.

All those times they hadn’t really spoken, the silence oddly comforting and all they needed. Yet, in this time, at this very moment, silence can’t cut it, the need to say something creeping across Steve’s tongue. Bucky may have gone through a change, be two halves of two people, but they share the same fear, one that builds, until the guard he tries to hold splits, opens the wound, exposing, and he can’t get it back.

He wonders if he should ask again, but Bucky beats him to it. ‘Well, if you count getting the green light to leave, then yeah, somethings happened.’

‘This is a good thing, isn’t it?’

Shrugging, ‘It’s different than how it used to be.’

‘I know; for starters, we don’t have to boil everything anymore —’

‘No, I don’t mean —’ He sighs, rubbing his forehead. ‘Back when I was, y’know, that person, I was told what to do. I took orders, of where to go and how to do it. I’m familiar with how this century works, but to go at it alone, for the puppet strings to be completely cut from the puppeteer? I wouldn’t last a day. I’d survive better back in the war.’

Months had passed, and finally, Bucky opens up; the tight sensation that’d riddled his chest since seeing him in the dirty, cramped motel room, loosens and relaxes, allowing him to breathe normal for once. He doesn’t expect anything more, doesn’t need him to reveal what he holds close to his heart, not until he’s ready, and because he’s heard that small snippet of what he feels, it’s enough.

He frowns. ‘What makes you think you’ll be alone?’

‘I can’t rely on anyone, Steve.’

It’s a risk, but he reaches over and rests a hand on his shoulder. Bucky flinches, but doesn’t move away. ‘You won’t need to. You’re welcome to stay with me at Avengers Tower until you get on your feet, if you want.’

‘That’s the definition of relying on someone —’

‘Not if they’ve invited you to stay.’ Bucky gives him a questioning look, and Steve nods. ‘I was speaking to Tony and your named popped up, and he offered that, if you needed somewhere to stay, you were welcome to for however long you want. If it’s just for a day, then fine. I won’t stop you.’

He’s nodding but Steve isn’t sure he’d actually listened to a word he said. ‘Tony as in Tony Stark? Howard’s son?’

‘Yeah. He can be a handful.’

‘If he’s anything like Howard, he shouldn’t be a problem to handle.’

Steve smiles, hopeful. ‘So, is that a yes?’

There’s a little glint in Bucky’s eyes, something he hadn’t noticed before, and it’s not exactly happiness, but it’s something, something that he recognises from forty years ago. ‘For now.’

He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. ‘I know what you’re thinking: this place, this time, it’s nothing like home. And you’re right, it isn’t.’ It done subconsciously — he tells himself, but maybe not — and his thumb rubs over the exposed skin of his neck. ‘That’s because we’re the home, we’re together, and we’re the closest thing to home as we’re gonna get.’

‘Yeah.’ A barely-there smile flits over his lips. ‘I know.’

~

Moving into the tower is easier than expected.

Not because of Bucky, but how the other Avengers would react. Nat, well, she’s Nat and greets Bucky in Russian, which gets a brief laugh out of him. Clint shakes his hand and makes a comment about how awesome his metal arm is, and wishes he had one himself. Thor claps him on the back, hard, a grin stretching his cheeks as he announces he and the rest of the nine realms welcome him. Bruce and Tony, unsurprised by their reaction, are utterly fascinated by who he is, and Tony tries to crack a joke about how he’s a big fan of Bucky’s ability to break through one of Steve’s shields — which, well, happened back then — and offers to upgrade it whenever he wants, which thankfully Bucky smiles at and says he’ll think about it.

As he and Bucky head to his room, Steve murmurs, ‘You’re really going to take Tony up on his offer?’

He nods, rolling his shoulder, and throws him a smile. ‘It is getting a little rusty. So, why not?’

And it’s the best thing he’s said in a while.

~

Steve wakes in the middle of the night, or early in the day, he doesn’t know; all he does know is that the shout that falls from his lips echoes around his head, his bed is drenched in sweat, the room drowning in silence besides his heavy breathing, unsteady, gasping, and his knuckles hurt from how tightly he holds the sheets. Except, there’s something else.

And it’s when his eyes focus, that the shape at the door sharpens, and he sees the silhouette of Bucky.

Neither move for several moments, and the sheets feel scratchy against his thighs as they pool around him, the blare of his alarm clock seems blinding, and he can’t release the breath he’s holding, not unless he wants his ribcage to combust and spill into ash. Bucky clenches his fist, there’s a creak of metal and a shuddering gust of air. It causes Steve to remain still, if this isn’t a good thing, that Bucky isn’t Bucky again and he’s about to surge forward and he wraps his hands around his neck, and —

‘Steve?’ His voice is barely audible over the pounding against Steve’s skull. ‘You alright?’

He shuffles, his eyes darting anywhere but there. ‘Yeah, sure. Fine.’

‘I heard you shouting —’

‘Yeah,’ he cuts in, nodding. ‘I was.’

‘D’you want to talk about it?’

The flash of images assault his mind again. He shivers. ‘No, not really.’

He’s still hovering in the doorway, and Steve resists the urge to get up and reach out to him. Bucky must sense it, stepping forward, but by no means where Steve wants him to be. ‘Should I go?’

Steve doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t need to, as Bucky crosses the distance between them and sits on the edge of the bed. And he hesitates, his expression unreadable — from the shadows that slash across his face and the guards he still tries to hold up — but his fingers brush over Steve’s, gently prying them away from the torn sheets.

And it’s ridiculous to look into it too much, but there’s a hope, a hope Steve has always kept a secret since he’d been a teenager, that maybe Bucky feels the same that Steve does about him. As Bucky laces his hand through his, and lays down next to him, not too close but not far away, just about touching to feel the warmth through his thin, ratty t-shirt; when he runs his thumb over the scar between Steve’s finger and thumb, the one he’d gotten when Bucky forced him on a motorbike for the first time, the hope is fuelled by Steve’s growing feelings.

Once an innocent crush, the moment Bucky fell, it’d been confirmed as something else entirely.

‘It’s —’ He pauses, makes sure that he isn’t speaking to nothing, and he knows when Bucky squeezes his hand ever so lightly. ‘It’s different each time, within the nightmare.’ His throat is thick. ‘One moment it’s explosions, the next I’m back in the ice, but most of the time, you’re there. Sometimes you’re faceless, or I can’t see you at all, but you’re there.’

Bucky tenses slightly, his breathing shallow. ‘What am I doing?’

‘You leave. You always leave.’

‘And that scares you?’

He huffs out a laugh. ‘Of course it does, Buck. I lost you once. I can’t lose you again.’

Warmth presses against his side as Bucky shifts closer, tightening his hand around Steve’s. ‘You’re not going to lose me — not ever.’

Bucky shifts them to lay on their sides, and Steve opens his mouth to ask what he’s doing, but he can’t, because the hand that’s holding his slips away, only to creep over to his front, and ghosts over the sliver of skin under his tee. His mind screams, and he sucks in a breath, wondering if this is still a dream — a wonderful, unrealistic dream that’s purely a fabrication of his desires.

It feels too real to be that. Not when Bucky’s fingers skim under the waistband of his pants, and pauses. He waits, and waits, with his hot breath harsh against the back of

Steve’s neck and skin burning against his. Steve swallows, and gives the slightest nod, so bare that he doesn’t think Bucky sees it, but he does, his hand breaking the boundaries which never really were boundaries, not when this has occupied many of his thoughts for years, whether it were during his sleep or a daydream that interrupted his concentration. He’d felt bad, and a little ashamed to think about his friend that way, if he was normal.

And now, as he thrusts into Bucky’s fist, feels the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, he is normal; it’s not from the acceptable in this century, or that everybody knows he is homosexual, but because it’s mutual, it has to be. He is normal.

And it’s so much better than what he’d imagined, as Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s dick, stroking, just the once, as if to gain a reaction; he does, a cracked, raspy moan that Steve tries to smother in the pillow, but fails. Bucky’s hands are calloused, so skilled, handling guns and fighting with graceful moves are one thing, but this is a whole other kind of art. It’s intimate, a sense of connection that must’ve been there before, even when they’d just been friends, with the arms around their shoulders or playful shove, it’s always been there.

He stutters a ‘ _Bucky_ —’ as he picks up the pace, twisting his wrist on every upstroke. He can feel Bucky press his forehead in between his shoulder blades, his other hand bringing himself off in the same rhythm. Sweat slicks his skin, the pulse in his neck throbbing so hard he wonders if the vein will burst, and maybe it should, because it’s too much and not enough, his jaw aching from how hard he clenches it. He can only lie there and take it, in the swarm of heat and sweat, with one, choked moan at a time.

It doesn’t take long for him to bite back a shout, the white stars flashing behind his eyelids, arching into Bucky’s touch. The eruption of warmth slowly fades as he rides it out, Bucky following close behind with a grunt of his own.

‘I —’ Bucky stops, but Steve is so dazed that he can’t tell if that was a waver in his tone, and all he whispers is his name.

Steve pulls him closer, linking their hands together again, not bothered by the slickness between their palms. And as he drifts, into the warmth, he hears one word, out of sense, as if part of a sentence but Steve missed the rest. ‘—you.’

~

It takes an hour for Steve to drift off to sleep, no dreams invading his unconscious, but once he wakes, the bed is empty and his hand cold. Part of him isn’t surprised, but the other is a stab of fear of where he is.

Yanking on some sweatpants, he’s already down the hallway when he asks, ‘JARVIS?’

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘Do you know where Bucky is?’

‘He specifically instructed for me to not inform you of his whereabouts —’ Steve sighs; that is typical. ‘— unless it was absolutely necessary, in which Mister Barnes assumed it would be. He appears to be on the roof, sir.’

Steve nods, knowingly. ‘Is he smoking by any chance?’

‘That would be so, yes.’

The brisk air bites into his skin as he reaches the roof, the lights of New York city a spectacular display, which looking now, is a bit too high for comfort; he wonders if Bucky feels the same, and that he forces himself to view the heights, that it’ll help grow accustomed to the reminder of the train, the sight of snow and the gripping claws of ice. Steve likes to think it could, one day, but it’s such a fools way, to wake up every morning with the belief that the nightmares will lessen, the bad memories will fade, and he’ll finally find his ultimate happiness.

He sees Bucky standing near the edge, his elbows resting on the railings, a cigarette held between his lips. He hasn’t flicked the ash off it yet.

As if sensing Steve is there and knowing what he’s thinking, he glances over his shoulder. ‘I needed some fresh air.’

‘Odd take on fresh air,’ he says, gesturing to his cigarette.

‘I’m gonna quit, you know, when we can either no longer afford them or the world runs out.’

Steve smiles, moving to stand next to him; their arms briefly touch, and it sends a shock of electricity up his spine. ‘So, some time, then?’

He inhales in one last, long drag, and stubs it out, sighing. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he confesses quietly, his gaze locked on the city. ‘Well, I could, if I really tried, but it’s the thought of sleeping that keeps me awake — especially if I’d fallen asleep with you there.’

It’s obvious what he’s trying to explain, what with Steve having experienced it himself most nights. The fear of what he’s going to dream of, if it’ll be a memory or something else entirely, a projection of he’s worst thoughts, which in Steve’s case, would involve Bucky and losing him, forever, with no chance of ever gaining him back.

It’s a gnawing feeling, deep in his gut, that creates a nausea and numb feeling in his throat.

The one he can never rid from his mind is he can’t see Bucky, but he doesn’t need to, as it’s the sound of his voice, a whisper, that Steve knows belongs to him. He’s drenched in darkness and Bucky’s voice is everywhere, asking him (pleads, torn and raw) why Steve never caught him in time, why he didn’t reach that little bit further. It’s pounding against his skull, ripping him apart from the inside, and steals the breath from his lungs that it feels like he’s the one dying, and he thinks he should — he should’ve been the one to fall.

He resists the urge to release the shaky sigh. ‘I wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Trust me, you would’ve.’

‘Try me.’

‘What happens,’ Pausing, and a shrug, ‘isn’t a pretty thing to watch. Sometimes —’

He shakes his head, but Steve encourages him by resting his hand on Bucky’s forearm, squeezing. ‘Go on. You can tell me.’

And it’s like they’ve been transported back to their old lives, where one day he’d open his front door to Bucky, soaked from the rain and standing there looking lost, only after his mother had died. Steve invited him in, and sat him down, told him he’d always be there for him, with no judgements or pressure, but Bucky had opened his mouth and all his grief and tears gushed out. Since then, it’d been the same.

Nodding, and flipping his hand to hold onto Steve’s, ‘Sometimes, when I wake up, I’m still in the nightmare. I can’t tell the difference between my conscious and unconscious, what’s real and what’s imaginary. I can break everything in the room. And once, when I was him, I hurt myself, had to be restrained to stop myself from doing any real damage. I don’t want it to happen again. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.’ He looks up, at Steve, and swallows thickly. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Steve places his other hand on top of theirs. ‘You won’t.’

‘I already have,’ he says around a harsh snort. ‘And what if next time, it’s a finishing blow?’

‘You’re not going to hurt me, in whatever way you think you will.’

‘Yeah? How’d you figure that?’

‘Because I know you think you’ll never be the same, but the James Barnes that I know is still in there. The one who beat up the bullies for me, who tried to set me up with dames, and who stood by my side throughout the tough times.’ To emphasise his point, and ignoring the risk, he lays his hand over Bucky’s chest. ‘I can see it. I can feel it. You’re here, and you’re breathing and you’re crying and you’re bleeding, and that’s what makes a human being — I’m not going to let anything happen to you again. Okay?’

Bucky studies him, his mouth parted, and Steve wonders if he’s said to much, and if he should retract it all back, except —

Except the hand laced with his is tugged forward, the other grips the back of his neck and Bucky’s lips crush his. It’s easy, so much easier than what he’s been told, or tried to learn, because it’s with a guy he’s been in love with for seventy years and it’s natural, the kiss gentle with the sweep of Bucky’s tongue across his lip and the feathery brush of his thumb against his cheek.

He sinks into it, one hand pressing into Bucky’s lower back, the other reaching to cup his jaw, over the slight dusting of stubble. And Bucky’s left hand is clenched around Steve’s waist, digging hard enough to leave a mark, but he wants the mark, the bruising, to remind him of whose fingers left the imprints, to trace the outline of it, and to feel it, even when it’s the middle of the night of the next day, he’ll still feel the cold metal and strength and power it holds. It borders on discomfort, but he wants it, he wants it.

The hand creeps under the hem of his tee, and he pulls back, licking his lips. ‘About earlier —’

‘Yeah, about that.’ Bucky nervously laughs, running a hand through his hair. ‘Consider what happen then, and what happened just now, as my way of saying, or showing, or whatever way, that I want you.’

Well, that was news to him. ‘You want this?’

‘Uh,’ Bucky says, a smirk curving his mouth. ‘Yeah. Have done for a while now.’

‘Since when?’

‘Just a few decades.’

‘Oh.’

‘And what about you? No one kisses like that without thinking about it first.’

Steve smiles, a faint blush on his cheeks. ‘About the same.’

‘Took us long enough.’

‘We’ve got a few more to make up for lost time.’

A smile lights up Bucky’s lips, and that dark look in his eyes — the one he’s always had since Steve was captured by him, when he was pinned to the ground with the hand around his throat — has disappeared, and Steve knows it’ll return at some point, but in this moment, it’s gone.

It’s all he needs to feel the rise of confidence, for the hope to build. All the doubt and fear he’d had still lingers within, and it’ll hit them both at unexpected times, but right here, right here, it proves they can beat it. They can look it straight in the eye and never back off, because each other is what they needed; sure, they were guided in the beginning, but once they’d found an exit from the maze, they know their way around it, know the paths and where the dead ends are. Just knowing is hope.

Bucky is smiling and that’s all that matters. ‘Yeah, we do.’

This place isn’t home, but it’s not a building, or a sense of time that is home, but the people who live in it.

And in this case, it’s not home, but it’s damn near close.


End file.
